


He's Just a Little Fixer-Upper

by chickenlivesinpumpkin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, First Time, First War with Voldemort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Rare Pairings, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 22:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1528541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenlivesinpumpkin/pseuds/chickenlivesinpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Voldemort's first defeat, Snape's grief and guilt are overwhelming, and he starts thinking about ending it all. But there's someone in the castle who's been watching Snape since he was a child, someone determined to put him back together again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Just a Little Fixer-Upper

**Author's Note:**

> I've included a note for underage, although I'm not sure how necessary it is. This is my first fanfic, so I hope you enjoy it! Also, I'm not making any money off this, unfortunately.

 

1982

 

He’d rather expected to be sacked.

The Dark Lord _was_ gone. Severus was of no real use anymore, and Dumbledore had more than done right by him during the trial. And if he were brutally honest, he had to admit he was a fairly shit teacher. He’d not gotten the job for his communication skills, after all. He’d only been given the post as a cover, so he’d have an excuse for spending so much time in Dumbledore’s pocket during the war. Therefore, his reason for being at Hogwarts had expired with Harry Potter’s bizarre survival of an Unforgiveable Curse just eight months ago.

And not withstanding Dumbledore’s unnerving certainty that their need for vigilance remained, Severus had fully expected to get a pink slip under his door the day after The Dark Lord vanished back in October. Then he’d expected it again when he was arrested, and yet again when he was released to Dumbledore’s supervision under those ridiculous probationary requirements (don’t use Unforgiveables? Really? As if he’d be running about casting Crucio on helpless citizens without such a decree? Fools.). Then he realized Dumbledore was waiting for the end of term. It was hard to find a replacement to pick up partway through, wasn’t it? So Severus resigned himself to getting through exams, knowing that he would be leaving when the children did, having put paid to his first and only year of teaching at the same time as he set aside his (insert sarcastic tone here) _illustrious_ spy career.

So he was more than a little surprised to find himself wandering the empty halls of Hogwarts, utterly at loose ends, during the warm summer months, gainfully employed and seemingly permanently housed. All the hours he’d intended to fill looking for work and tracking down a place to sleep (he’d whore himself in Knockturn Alley before he’d return to his father and Spinner’s End) were now empty, stretching endlessly before him. Strange that his students craved this endless free time. Severus rather felt like he might prefer to climb beneath a blanket and take a nap that would last until September 1st. He did not do that, of course, because even after getting the mark of that lunatic burned into his arm, after spending a couple weeks in Azkaban before the trial, after having his inadequacies marched in front of the Wizengamot for the virtuous and inexperienced alike to judge, he did still have some shred of dignity. No matter how much he might wish to.

That did not, however, make the silence and inactivity any easier to bear.

Suddenly he had no distractions from the terrible facts of his own failures. There could be no hiding from the consequences he’d wrought; the grave he’d dug for the woman he’d loved for years. It ate him up, made him hollow, burned him out. He was twenty-one and felt a hundred. Some days, the echoes of his own footsteps on stone were the only proof that he was not a ghost.

*

The boy wasn’t eating.

Argus Filch had made a career out of watching Severus Snape. He’d wager his knowledge of the boy would rival the Headmaster’s; after all, that old man wanted the boy only for the weapon he had become, and not for the quiet, damaged heart he kept very carefully concealed behind night-dark eyes. Filch, on the other hand, saw more than what was simply of use to a dangerous cause.

It had started entirely too early. There was shame in that acknowledgement, true enough. Filch rarely admitted that the sticky, loud, barbarous students at Hogwarts were even human, let alone considered them as objects of potential sexuality. He’d never laid hands on a student in that manner, and until Severus Snape returned for his fourth year, he’d never wanted to. But once the urge struck with the young Slytherin, it never faded.

Something about the boy had simply tugged at him.

At fourteen, Snape had been slight, bony even, with cavernous cheeks and that unfortunate, too-adult nose. He’d moved like a wild creature, flitting from shadow to shadow, gaze always alert for potential trouble (usually in the form of nearly-rabid Gryffindors, although it wasn’t unheard of for his own house-mates to knock him around from time to time). Filch had made it a hobby, catching out the worst offenders: Potter and Black, vicious little rats followed by their common, jeering sycophants. After all, Filch noted with an upturned lip, nothing quite bespoke the bravery of their house like bullying an outnumbered kid.

If Filch had couched his secret protectiveness of the boy in a mentor-like or paternal sort of feeling, perhaps that could be understood. He couldn’t quite manage to lie to himself that well, though. Even then, he knew it was wrong for a man his age to notice the curve of underage buttocks, the sweet line of a still-smooth cheek, the not-yet changed voice. He tried to drag his stare away from slender hips and a surprisingly elegant throat. Whenever his thoughts began to drift toward imaginings of smooth skin under his fingertips and the arch of a young back, he would yank them to the present reality, which was that the Snape boy, awkwardly attractive as he might be, was still a _boy._ Vulnerable and achingly alone. He needed someone to care for him, not take advantage.

That left Filch resentfully observing from a distance, noting the safer details: the foods that the boy preferred (Filch had not been aware anyone actually liked cauliflower), the sheer number of hours he could spend with his nose in a book (four and a half without stopping while sitting by the Black Lake on a Saturday afternoon), the way he nervously chewed his lip when he suspected trouble aimed his way (will not think about his lips, will _not_ ). Filch caught him with many a sly, canny trick up his sleeve, and rather than think him ill-behaved like he would any other student, he instead took comfort. It meant his boy was likely to survive anything that came. And trouble did come; sometimes he thought the young Slytherin was a lightning rod for the cruel and manipulative.

Filch remembered distinctly the moment his desire tipped over into full-blown love (or at least, the moment when he could no longer lie to himself about it). Sometimes a bit of a healthy walk loosened up his stiff hip and made sleep easier to come by, so Filch had taken a last roam out through the late dark. Off the slope of the big hill, down toward the Whomping Willow, Filch had heard a ruckus that raised his ire. Students out of bed—and out of the castle, and on a full moon night, no less! A dangerous time to roam, what with the Lupin boy’s little problem, although with Dumbledore’s precautions it seemed unlikely anything dangerous would transpire. Still, his blood got up. Wasn’t much more fun to be had in the world than chewing out a couple of self-righteous snots.

But upon approaching, he’d seen something that shocked him. Potter, his hands clamped tight on young Snape’s arms, wrenching him to and fro, hissing demanding words directly into that white face. His boy’s school robes were filthy and torn, and a bleeding cut marred one cheek. His eyes were hollow and frightened. Filch didn’t bother to be quiet, but neither of them noticed him. He was able to catch a bit of Potter’s spiel: _you can’t say anything, it’s not just me anymore you’d be hurting, it would be bad for the school and Dumbledore, and I swear Lupin didn’t know, he wasn’t part of it. Sirius didn’t mean any harm, really, he’s just a git sometimes, and we’ll pay you back, just don’t say anything. I’m sorry you got hurt…_ and that was the moment when Filch could listen to no more and descended, taking one arm of each boy, and dragging them with him up to the Great Hall and then further up into the castle to the gargoyle that served as gatekeeper to the Headmaster’s office.

He felt glee at Potter’s resigned angst, but the distressed tractability in Snape worried him considerably. The boy always fought back; it was in his nature. He had too much pride not to. Yet, the arm in his grasp seemed to tremble, and he would not make eye contact. Filch had had no choice but to deposit the boys in Dumbledore’s care and leave off for the night, but he’d stayed up for hours, his thoughts whirling. What had Potter and Black done? How had they hurt his boy? If they’d touched him…

The next morning, well before breakfast, he stumbled across the boy by pure accident (oh, all right, he was lurking) while he was leaving the infirmary. Filch wanted to stop, to check in, but Snape darted away, and Filch had an actual job trying to follow, eventually finding him gone to ground in a small alcove near the empty Transfiguration classroom. There he stared out a window, his fingers twisting together in his lap, his breathing fast with either fury or pain.

“Mr. Snape,” Filch had said, then fell silent. He had not meant the name to come out so warmly.

“We both got detention,” the boy said dully. “I was out of bed after curfew. That’s worth detention. Black tried to feed me to a werewolf. That’s worth detention as well. I suppose now I know my worth, yes?”

“Only to those who look without seeing,” Filch murmured, and the boy had glanced in his direction without making eye contact. Everything about him seemed faded and worn, from the soft, down-turned curve of his undefended mouth to the sagging posture of that bony body.

He’d nodded his thanks, nothing more, as if he couldn’t bear to grant any more acknowledgment of the attempted comfort for fear of losing control. There was such pride and misery in that expression—a determination that clearly said that even if others did not value him, he would damn well value himself, and in that precious moment, Filch lost his heart. Perhaps on the surface, to others like the Headmaster, the boy was cunning and vengeful and desperate for power. But under that, in a place he let few see (if any others at all), he was also tender and vulnerable and in such need of care. Filch wanted so badly to touch. To soothe. But he was terrified at the thought that it might not end there, so he kept his hands at his sides and faded back the way he’d come.

Filch would not be the one to break him. He swore it to himself every day. 

And despite the fact that Filch spent a good amount of the remaining time that Snape lived at Hogwarts trying not to plot scenarios in which he could make use of his cock (so hard that it could’ve shamed steel whenever he was in the same room with him, for fuck’s sake, what was _wrong_ with him?), he managed to wave the boy off after his seventh year with little more than an ache in his chest and the relieved mind of a man who knows he has narrowly avoided doing something utterly, unforgivably wrong.

He’d thought his torment was done. He thought he was safe. Able to go back to his long, numbing days of repetitive tasks and smirking students with Mrs. Norris alone to infringe on his privacy.

Until the little bastard came back.

Substantial changes had been wrought in the boy—and Filch did still think of him very much as a boy. Twenty wasn’t so much older than seventeen, and the age difference between the two of them sure as shit hadn’t changed. But it was harder now, to remind himself that Snape was still too inappropriate a choice. In the three years that had passed between the last time Filch had seen him and now, something vital had leaked from the boy’s eyes. He’d never had innocence, exactly, but he’d been softer, sweeter, before he’d returned to teach. He’d re-entered Hogwarts with a grimness that took Filch thoroughly aback. Snape, at twenty, had a bitterness that should only be worn by someone who’d lived far longer. For that entire year of teaching, Snape’s darkness had crouched ugly and stilted within him, invisible but palpable to all he crossed. He had the wild distrust of a forest creature who’d known a too-rough hand.

Now the school year had passed, and You-Know-Who was long gone, and that grim bitterness had vanished, leaving Snape somehow young again—in a lost, uncertain way.

His purpose had gone, and with it, his fight.

He’d become, once again, the boy in the alcove, dull and abandoned.

He’d stopped eating. Judging by the circles under his eyes, he’d given up on sleeping as well. Filch hadn’t seen him exchange more than two words with anyone in weeks, perhaps even months. In fact, other than coming to the Great Hall to sit for meals he never partook of, Snape seemed inclined to remain firmly entrenched in his dungeon quarters. If not for the occasional whiff of potions brewing behind closed doors, Filch might’ve suspected that his boy had become a ghost.

*

There was something comforting about having time to wallow, Severus decided in early August. He’d gotten into a good routine with it now. Wake just early enough to make it to breakfast so that Dumbledore didn’t have an excuse to hover. Return to his quarters and brew something ridiculously quick and uncomplicated so he’d have the guise of activity. Drink copious amounts of firewhiskey. Read something until his vision was so blurred by drink that the words were little more than illegible dots on the page. Debate whether he was drunk enough to manage a few hours’ sleep without the nightmare (Lily before the Dark Lord, her chin lifted, those beautiful eyes determined and sad and frightened and fierce all at once as she begged for her child’s life, everyone fully aware that it was Severus who had sent him there). Decide that no, he wasn’t drunk enough, would possibly never be drunk enough to get that image out of his head, and knock back another glass. Lather, rinse, repeat.

At this rate, his liver would give out before he was thirty. He could only be glad about this.

Sometimes, in the earliest hours of the morning, sloppy with grief and alcohol, he would bury his face in his sheets and weep, her name on his lips, his guilt a hot, hard ball in his stomach that no amount of tears could dislodge. He’d killed her. His hand may not have been on the wand that carried the curse, but he’d killed her all the same. The only kind touch he’d known that had asked for nothing in return.

There were moments when he seriously considered ‘accidentally’ using too much belladonna in his sleeping draught. Then it would be done. As time passed, his reasons for refraining weakened.

What did it matter? He was practically dead already anyway. A structure without soul. A house without an occupant. Eerily empty and well past saving.

*

The little _bastard._

Filch stood in Severus Snape’s potions laboratory, staring at the wreck surrounding him. He’d barely caught the fire in time; any later and he’d have had to run for help. As it was, he’d been too late to save the wall from a terrible scorching. And the rest of the room was a near total loss. Magic could do a great many things, but he doubted it could fix this.

Snape had well and truly had a breakdown. There was no other word for it. The smell of smoke and the furious, hoarse yells had brought Filch running from a floor above (and when the sound of those yells had abruptly broken off, he’d felt fear like he’d never known) to the otherwise-empty dungeons to investigate. That was where he found the boy. He lay in a pile of shattered glass among upturned cauldrons and pools of splattered potion, nearly unconscious, the reek of firewhiskey fumes discernible from several feet away, his hands bleeding copiously, his face white.

The blood wasn’t a surprise; that tended to happen when a body decided to smash dozens of phials and flasks with one’s bare hands. The alcohol was of mild interest, if only because Filch had never seen Snape drink before. The tear stains on his cheeks would prove haunting, however.

How dare he treat himself with such disdain? Filch’s hands shook with the remnants of fear and a burgeoning anger, and it wasn’t until he gently touched Snape’s arm that he was sure he wouldn’t actually strike the boy for his carelessness with his own health.

“Come on, lad,” he said, all too aware of the weary sympathy in his voice.

“She’s gone,” Snape mumbled, and made a soft sound so reminiscent of a young boy pleading for comfort that all of Filch’s anger vanished. He wondered who ‘she’ was, even as a deeply hidden part of him quailed at this evidence that the boy might prefer women.

“This won’t bring her back,” Filch said. “Rise up. Come on now.”

Snape obeyed with a blank clumsiness that left Filch doing most of the heavy lifting. Not that there was much to the boy. Skin and bones, really. Not a pound to spare on that slender frame. There was no strain to supporting the boy when he staggered and fell against him. And the pleasure Filch found at having that slim body pressed against his own was his own business and no one else’s.

He wrapped a long arm around his shoulders and paused to inhale when the dark head lolled into the hollow of his throat. Warm, whiskey-soaked breath fluttered against his skin, and that was all it took. Too many years of stifled desire lurched forward at once. He’d never even _touched_ the boy before, and now he had an armful of him. His cock hardened and Filch had to grit his teeth to keep his hands in respectful places.

If it would make him a bastard to touch the boy simply because he was all of twenty-one, that was nothing to what it would make him if he touched him now, while the lad was clearly drunk and utterly besieged by grief for some unnamed girl.

“We’ve got to walk now,” Filch finally managed. “It’s time you got some sleep.”

“I couldn’t do it,” Snape muttered, slurring more than a little. “I tried, I got it ready, but I couldn’t do it.” Then he burrowed slightly closer to the caretaker and added, “’M cold.”

Filch was decidedly warm, but then, they were approaching this moment from radically different viewpoints. And it was rapidly becoming harder to remember why it would be wrong to let his hands slide along the long line of torso as he helped the inebriated professor to his quarters. _You’re forty-six. He’s twenty-one. You’re queer. He’s probably straight—and even if he isn’t he’s in love with someone else. He’s broken. You’re…disgusting. So disgusting, to think you’ve the right to touch._

With that futile argument whirling through his head, Filch hauled his cargo through a door and into a well-appointed sitting room. He peered around, never having been in here before, and finally figured out which was the bedroom. He dumped the boy onto the four-poster, ignored the sly, tiny voice that claimed to be appalled at his lack of compassion—surely it was rude to leave the poor boy in those potion-splattered robes and trousers when they should clearly be removed—and rummaged in the bathroom just long enough to find a neatly labeled phial of hangover remedy and some bandages.

While he’d been gathering supplies, Snape had passed out. Filch washed the wounds on his hands and taped them up with clean gauze, then threw the trash away. He forced himself not to stare at the slumbering face, so much younger in appearance without those bitter eyes staring out. The boy was pale, his eyelids faintly lavender and delicate, which reminded him of the hangover remedy that would likely be needed in the morning. This he placed on the bedside table.

Then he went back to the lab to see what could be done with the mess.

*

Severus woke up uncomfortably warm and dazed by the sheer power of the throbbing in his temples. He spent some time on his back, wondering if it was worth the effort to roll over, and finally realized he had no idea how he’d gotten to his bed. He glanced around the fairly bright room, which made the pain in his head temporarily worsen—how on earth did anyone ever appreciate sunlight when it was clearly the most violent force on the planet?—and then down at himself.

First, he took a moment to study the bandages wrapped about his palms. One was slightly bloodstained. How the hell had he gotten those? Why was he in bed in his clothes, and what the hell potion was it that he’d spilled all over himself? It stank. And an even bigger concern was how he’d fit the contents of half a pub’s liquor supply in his gullet, all of which was threatening to make a reappearance. It was in this holy moment that he saw the phial of hangover potion on the table by his bed. The pounding in his head clarified his priorities and he left the other questions aside.

He pulled the stopper and sniffed. Poured a small amount onto his hand to check color and consistency. Finally, still suspicious, he collected his wand, got up and went to his bathroom (pausing twice to swallow convulsively), where he studied the empty space in his medicine cabinet where his personally-brewed remedy was usually located. He closed the cabinet, took a moment to survey his unshaven jaw and bloodshot eyes while he thought.

“Ooh, that was a rough night, wasn’t it, dearie?” his mirror sympathized. Severus ignored the impertinence. It seemed he had no reason to suspect tampering. Whatever lessons in distrust he’d learned at the Dark Lord’s knee (such as: never drink a potion given to you by someone else, and never go anywhere without your wand on your person) paled next to the fact that he felt so sick he was on the verge of vomiting. And considering that just last night he’d considered brewing a potion intended to kill him, caution suddenly seemed a bit silly at this point anyway. He downed the contents in three swift gulps, and settled on the edge of the tub to wait for relief.

He was still sitting in the bathroom, faintly ill if improving, wondering who his mysterious benefactor was (and it was someone else, because if Severus had thought to get a hangover remedy at all, he’d have just drunk the damn thing then instead of waiting), when he heard a key turn in the door to his sitting room. Footsteps sounded. Severus’s wand was lifted and well-aimed when none other than Argus Filch appeared in the doorway.

For a long moment they simply looked at each other.

Finally, Filch said, “Take a shower, lad. You’ll feel better.” Before walking away.

He didn’t know why, but Severus obeyed. No one had ever told him to take a shower before, at least not that he could recall. He supposed his mam had washed him when he was little, but at some point she’d just stopped doing it and when enough kids had teased him about it, he’d finally figured out he should be taking care of it himself. He suddenly wondered if other families handled the hygiene thing differently.

He washed up, careful while sudsing his hair because the headache was still bad enough that even his scalp hurt, but by the time he turned off the water, he did feel more human. He got out and toweled off. He even brushed his teeth. After a hesitation, and a strange sense of regret, he unwound the bandages on his hands and applied some mild healing spells that took care of the worst of the damage and left him without pain.

Then he stared at the wall for what could have been ages, wondering if Filch was still out there, waiting. As if summoned, a knock fell on the door. A brief hesitation, and then the knob slowly turned. They faced each other, and Filch seemed utterly determined not to look down at the towel-wrapped body before him, and spoke in the general direction of Severus’s forehead.

“Tea’s gonna get cold. Up and easy does it. Get some clothes on your back.”

For a heartbeat, as he turned away, Filch’s eyes flickered down, and Severus’s skin prickled with the intensity of it. Then Filch was gone, and Severus found himself clutching the towel to his waist as he went into the bedroom to dress. For some reason that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, he decided to forgo robes and stick with trousers and a jumper. He didn’t even put on socks.

Then he went into his sitting room. The pounding in his head was greatly relieved by the time he’d gotten comfortable on his couch and was sipping a cup of English Breakfast with a wedge of lemon. The potion had fully kicked in and was doing an admirable job. Not that it was a surprise; brewing was one of his few natural gifts. He’d often thought about getting his mastery after the war. Assuming, of course, that he lived. Now that he had, it still seemed like an impossible goal. Things like that were for the living.

The tea was fresh and hot. And the company was oddly…companionable.

“Thank you,” Severus said stiffly.

Filch grunted from where he sat in a chair across from Severus. For the first time, Severus took a good look at the caretaker.

He was a big man, reddish-haired, ruddy-faced and fairly brawny. He wasn’t good-looking, to be sure, but Severus often preferred that in a person. Beautiful people spoke a different language and were not to be trusted. Filch wore dark, worn trousers under serviceable robes, and the sleeves were pulled back enough to reveal muscled forearms.

They drank the tea together. Filch didn’t seem inclined to prattle; another point in his favor, although he did keep stealing surreptitious glances.

Severus did not feel particularly bothered by Filch’s surveillance, although he wasn’t sure why. He couldn’t recall ever doing more than exchanging a nod with the man since he’d returned to Hogwarts. And when he’d been a student there’d been a few moments when Filch had stood up for him during some nonsense with Potter and Black, but the man had done it so briefly and with such casual disdain for the spoiled Gryffindors that Severus couldn’t possibly infer that it was in any way related to a softness for his struggles. Filch had been brusque, a servant of justice only. One of the few who’d ever played Severus fair, come to think of it.

Severus wished that he had some better memory of what had happened the night before. He recalled cutting up the belladonna, even as he was drinking straight from the bottle of firewhiskey. He thought he had a dim recollection of acrid smoke. Perhaps he’d let the potion scorch?

“How did I hurt my hands?” Severus asked.

“Best I can tell you had a bit of a lash-out in your lab. I found you covered in burnt potion, lying in a mess of broken glass. Smashed up your supplies a good bit, lad.”

Severus couldn’t be bothered to groan about that idea. The half-formed notion that he would simply rebrew the poisonous sleeping draught meant that he didn’t have to worry about cleaning up the—

“Any particular reason you’re planning on killing yourself?”

Severus’s eyes leapt up to meet the kindness of the caretaker’s. “Who said anything about that?” he asked, carefully blank.

“Squib or not, I was raised in a magical household, lad. I know belladonna when I see it, and I know what that kind of quantity can do. Don’t lie to me.”

Severus licked dry lips. “You’ve no reason to care or interfere.”

“Don’t try to hedge either, you little beast. If you’ve got the urge to shove poison down your throat, at least don’t be such a coward that you won’t explain your reasoning.”

“I’m not a coward,” Severus said in a low voice, tone almost vicious.

“Running into a grave’s not the act of a coward?” Filch somehow imbued the question with honest concern. _Coward_ was a word that Severus was sensitive to, but he didn’t sense any judgment here. And it wasn’t for lack of trying.

“I’m not running.” Severus set down his teacup and closed his eyes. He was so tired. So very tired of all of this. “Anyway, I didn’t do it, did I?”

Why should he feel tempted to explain to this stranger? Maybe because there was no one else. No one but Dumbledore, who would try to be kind, but would be unable to hide his scorn for Severus’s grief and guilt. They’d begun to make their way from distrust and duty toward something that might one day be mutual respect, but for now, Severus knew that Dumbledore merely tolerated him. There was no caring there. Had it been Dumbledore sitting across from him just now, he’d be subtly impatient, implying that Severus had brought this pain upon himself (which was true) and that he would be quite successful with the activity of moving on if he’d just get on with it already (which was certainly not true).

But Filch just watched him with calm, steady eyes. And Severus had been alone for so long. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had doctored him out of basic human concern. Or brought him food. He didn’t think he’d ever had a stranger show such compassion for his suffering. And there was something altogether reassuring about the _fixture_ of Filch. He’d been here for ages, a sort of sentinel of the halls of Hogwarts, as sturdy and safe as she was. Surely that kind of strength and consistency could be trusted?

“You mentioned a woman,” Filch said, as if he’d realized Severus wasn’t going to speak. “Has she got a name?”

“It was Lily,” Severus murmured.

“Evans?” Filch looked vaguely surprised. “Weren’t you two friends for a while?”

“How would you know that?” Severus asked, his eyes narrowing.

“I watch,” Filch said, shrugging. “Not much else to do around here, not if you’ve got my job. You lot are like a roving play.”

“Some things are worth leaving the stage for.”

*

If the boy had put forward any sign of self-pity, Filch might’ve tossed him to the Headmaster. Filch didn’t have the first clue how to help him, after all, and it seemed likely that for some, a swift kick in the pants and some brusque handling could break the haze of depression. But there was no evidence that Severus was feeling sorry for himself. His view of the situation seemed relatively objective.

Dumbledore didn’t seem likely to be any more capable of offering sympathy to the boy than Filch was, and perhaps was even considerably less so. Dumbledore didn’t love him, and Filch did.

“There may be good reasons. But a dead girl isn’t one of them,” Filch said. “Dying for a cause, sure. Dying to save someone else, definitely. Dying because you’re hurting isn’t enough.”

“What do you know of it?” Severus bit out.

“You aren’t the only person to have lost someone,” Filch said mildly. He was gratified to see a faint expression of shame cross the boy’s features. “And I know that time truly does heal all wounds, even if it never quite manages the forgetting of them.”

“It hurts,” the boy whispered. “She was the only one who ever loved me. She’s the only one who ever will.” Again, there was no sign of self-pity; rather the statement was offered as fact.

How Filch wanted to correct that misapprehension, but instead he asked, “When did it happen?”

The boy leaned his head back against the couch cushion and closed his eyes. “October 31, 1981. She died to save her son.”

“The mother of the Boy Who Lived?” Filch hadn’t quite put it together that Lily Evans had grown up to be Lily Potter, although that should have been obvious. “At least you’ve got good taste. She was a kind girl.”

“Yes,” the boy whispered. Filch got the distinct impression he was talking to himself as he went on. “I didn’t…it wasn’t like that with her, I mean. I wanted her, but I didn’t…want her. I just…I’m not making sense. Nothing ever makes sense.”

“Might be time to quit the drink,” Filch suggested.

“What are you, my mam?”

Filch ground his teeth. “If I was, I’d take you over my knee for that display last night.”

The boy’s eyes flew open, something strange and measuring in that dark gaze. Filch returned the look evenly, curious as to how the boy would interpret the comment.

“You’re talking like I’m a schoolboy in need of punishment,” the boy said, his tone so carefully blank that Filch almost felt proud of him. He gave nothing away. Canny little thing.

“Act like it, that’s what you get. Nothing wrong with needing help. But having too much pride to go get the help? That is a childish thing.”

“And for that I should be punished,” the boy said, again empty-voiced. Filch couldn’t see what was going on behind those black eyes. His features appeared collected. Perhaps even politely interested.

“If you think you need to be, I’m sure I can come up with something,” Filch replied, even as his heart knocked against his ribs. What was he doing? How many years had he fought this? How many years had he spent resisting? Only to throw everything away in a reckless moment?

“Cleaning trophies,” the boy said flatly.

Filch hesitated for what seemed like an hour. “Whatever you need,” he said quietly. “If some heavy labor will clear the head, I’ve tasks enough. If it’s…something else you’re after…something other than punishment…” He fell silent a moment, clenched his jaw, and then spoke as evenly as he could. “If it’s something else you’re after, you’ve only to say so.”

Filch had made too many mistakes in his life not to know the value and relief of punishment. Children might loathe the concept and do anything to avoid it, but adults knew better. The mistakes made by the grown were correspondingly larger than those made by children, and by the time mistakes of that size could be made, the clarifying value of punishment was all too clear. Those who were intimately familiar with guilt could even come to crave it.

But he wasn’t sure that punishment was exactly what the boy was after. Filch rather suspected he just wanted tending, but didn’t know how to ask for it. It saddened him immeasurably to think that the boy would find it easier to ask for punishment than kindness.

The boy studied Filch for the longest time, perhaps aware of the rushing pulse in the caretaker’s old throat, of the nervousness that coiled in his belly. He wanted so badly to help, to reach out and ease some of the pain in that young face, and he prayed to whatever higher power he could think of that this wasn’t an excuse just to get his hands on that young body. _Disgusting old man._

Finally, with an air of competent control, the boy put his half-empty cup of tea back on the tray. “If I asked you to use me?”

The quiver in his gut became a thick, heavy warmth. He was developing his own guilt now, but that didn’t stop him from speaking. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “I would ask why you felt you should be used. And if your reasons made sense to me, I would agree. With possible…constraints.”

Those black eyes hovered on Filch’s face like magnets, drawing him in closer and closer. The boy leaned forward, and calmly began unbuttoning his left sleeve. Filch glanced down in confusion, watching the slow reveal of pale wrist up to forearm, where he saw a strange black shape. It looked like a skull, and the tongue…

Filch sat back fast. “No,” he murmured. “You didn’t.”

The boy watched him, mouth rosy and steady. He’d broken the habit of biting his lip somewhere along the way, Filch thought, and his robes were worn, and his slim body was curved and hunched in the chair as if his very bones were bent. And he would think of a million other inconsequential details before he’d acknowledge the mark that rode that fine-grained skin.

“I failed you,” he whispered, and now the boy frowned.

“How do you come to that conclusion?”

Filch shook his head helplessly. He was not going into that. “Did you kill her? Lily Evans?”

The boy’s eyes fell. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Was she the only one?”

The boy’s eyes lifted again, a hint of defiance in them. A dark, needy begging in that look. A look that asked, _if I rebel enough, will you strike back? If I push you hard enough, will you please put me out of my misery?_ A horrible look, actually. “No,” the boy said softly. “There were others. Some of them I did directly. Are you shocked?”

“Yes,” Filch admitted. “It never occurred to me when you were a student that you could…well, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t, then. But circumstances…make fools of us all, don’t they?” His finger traced the outline of the mark thoughtfully. “The fact that Dumbledore and the Wizengamot feel I’ve atoned is immaterial. I’ve done things that deserve punishment. Some of them I even feel bad about. So punish me. Make me pay. Take me.”

Filch’s mouth went dry. “I don’t…”

“Use me,” the boy said, and Filch had a moment to wonder at his aim. The words had struck true enough. He was so hard it hurt, and he could barely look away from the wraith in the chair across from him.

The boy rose and approached, that long body finally dropping to kneel at Filch’s knee. “Make me forget.” Slender fingers crept up to his thigh. “You can hurt me if you want to.”

*

Severus wasn’t entirely sure what the hell he was thinking.

If there was one rule he thought he’d have down cold by now, it was that he had only his own dignity. Severus Snape had never possessed any actual power or capability; he’d been a whipping boy for his parents, cornered and humiliated by classmates, abandoned by the girl he loved, betrayed by his master for the sake of that girl, and had his job and freedom utterly dependent on the whim of a wizard who thought he was little more than a convenient liar.

He had always been a low creature, and to make up for it, he had decided long ago that if the only thing he could control was his pride, then he would never relinquish it willingly.

Kneeling in front of Argus Filch, offering his body and his dignity in the hope that the man would…what, hurt him? Ruin him? Ah, the glories of self-destruction. Yes, this was probably a serious mistake. But at this exact moment, he couldn’t bear to think anymore. He couldn’t stand this self-loathing. His chest felt tight. Everything ached sharply, and he couldn’t breathe, and if Filch was willing to take him out of his head for just a few minutes he would take that. He would pay any price for it. One pain could often blot out another.

He half-expected Filch to laugh at him. After all, who would want Severus on his knees before him? And though the thought stung him, he didn’t rise. The laughter would be beneficial in its own way. The terrible gaping need inside him wouldn’t go until he’d paid back what suffering he owed, so the more humiliation he could wring out of this, the smaller his debt would be at the end, right?

No laughter came.

Instead, Filch’s thumb came to rest on Severus’s lower lip. He plucked at the flesh there lightly, scraping the edge of the nail along the corner, the touch gentle. Severus opened his mouth and leaned forward, biting down slightly, tentatively. The taste of salt and lemon came to his tongue. He gave a slight suck, wondering if this was right. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes upward uncertainly to see if he could get an idea of what to do next from Filch’s expression.

But something about that made Filch pull away. Severus went still.

After a moment, Filch murmured, “You done this many times, lad?”

Severus considered lying, then decided that if he wanted humiliation, there was no surer way than being honest. “No.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never…”

“Have you ever even kissed anyone?” Filch asked, sounding strangled.

Severus’s face must’ve been tomato red, it felt so hot. He nodded. “Lily, once. When we were…eight or nine, I think.” His expression turned mulish, although he couldn’t have said why.

Filch paused a moment. “That counts,” he said quietly, and Severus relaxed a bit, absurdly grateful.

“I won’t hurt you,” Filch promised, and Severus drew back, suspicious. Filch’s expression twisted—amusement and sorrow intertwined. “No more than I have to, considering what I’ll be doing to you. If you want more than that, we’ll save it for next time.”

Next time? But before Severus could form the words, Filch’s fingers were back on his face. The thumb traced his lips again, eased inside. “Suck,” he whispered. “Use your tongue.”

Severus obeyed, listening to Filch’s breathing get a little rougher. After a few moments, the hand withdrew to go to his wrist. He was drawn up to the couch, where he knelt awkwardly beside the caretaker.

“I’ll take care of you,” Filch whispered, easing closer. “I’ll make you forget it all.”

*

A virgin.

That news should’ve been the proverbial cold shower that ended the encounter, but instead, Filch felt elated. He burned with the knowledge.

The boy was his. Always had been. Had been meant for him, that much was obvious—he’d been meant to have him way back before. Meant to corral him and show him love and that he was worthy and good, no matter what his family and the rest of the school and world might tell him.

Maybe there wouldn’t be a mark on his arm now if Filch had acted. Or, put a different way, he thought with a slight pang, that mark would’ve been different. Maybe it would only have been an exchange of masters. A dark lord became a dirty old man. Monsters both.

Perhaps the boy’s karma was to belong to men who wanted only to use him.

But it was so hard not to when he knelt there begging for it. Filch closed his eyes for a second, struggling to think past the feel of that velvet mouth on his thumb.

Okay, the boy was young. Twenty-one. And more than twenty years younger than him. Christ, he should be horse-whipped for this. But he was still an adult, by law for certain. And he could no longer be called naïve or blindly trusting, that was for sure, not if he had a mark like that on his arm. Perhaps he wasn’t in his right mind, not with what he was asking for, but if he needed this badly enough to let Filch put his filthy hands on him, then it might not stop if Filch said no. And he’d be damned if he’d let this boy ask for solace from Dumbledore or one of the whores down in Knockturn. No, Snape was his, boy or not, innocent or not. And he’d get everything he could from this, for as long as he could wrangle it, and damn his conscience.

Maybe he wouldn’t feel so guilty if he could stop thinking of him as _the boy,_ but Filch suspected it was far too late. When Snape was a hundred, Filch would still think of him as _the boy,_ and he would still think of him as _his._

He pulled the boy up onto the couch beside him and leaned in. The first kiss (and it was the first, in Filch’s mind, whatever that Evans girl might’ve got up to) was sweet and soft. Filch pressed deeper, leading with his lips, easing his tongue into a mouth both wet and hot, and tasted the boy’s surprise. He lifted a hand, caressed a smooth jaw. He hoped Snape had shaved in the shower, but feared that the boy’s morning beard still just came in soft rather than raspy. What was he doing touching something so young?

Then the boy’s tongue moved hesitantly against his, warm and slippery, and Filch officially didn’t give a fuck about any of it. He wanted this. The boy was offering. He would bloody well take it.

His hands grasped fabric, and it was only with reluctance that he gave up that hot mouth to pull the shirt over Snape’s head. He returned there again as soon as he was able, dipping down, tasting everything, driving deeper and deeper, until he heard the low moan in the boy’s throat.

He was touching that lean chest now, surprised to find the shoulders slightly broader than he’d expected, the torso and arms more developed. He didn’t have the body of a child anymore, and with great relief Filch noticed that this was far more arousing than the alternative would have been. There was plenty here to worship: the thick trail of inky black hair starting at his navel and disappearing into his trousers. The sweet rosy flush that was working its way across his cheeks and down into his chest when he noticed how hard Filch was looking at him. Filch brushed over visible ribs and a concave belly, over firm shoulders and long arms, and then his mouth descended to follow his fingers. He tasted the warm hollow of the neck, dipped into the crevice of a collarbone, nuzzled the soap and musk of a recently-washed armpit, dragged the boy onto his side and found the exposed ridges of shoulder blades, the knobs of a spine, the small of a back, all explored with wet, dragging kisses and bites that got progressively rougher no matter how much he told himself to keep it gentle.

His hands wanted to clench on tender flesh. Mine, he kept thinking. Mine. Somehow, the boy’s trousers were tugged down and aside. He wore no pants, Filch noticed, and found something rather divine about that revelation. Now he could see the jutting hipbones, the small patch of curls, and the long, alabaster cock that protruded eagerly from his body. Filch wanted to fall on him with lips and teeth, wanted to leave marks proclaiming ownership, but forced himself to move slowly. He took the boy’s erection in hand and gave several gentle tugs, relishing the way the boy’s head tipped back, those black eyes vanishing behind closed, trembling lids. The sound he made was heavenly.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” Filch said darkly, and chuckled. “Look at you. Christ, you’re lovely.”

The boy’s eyes opened, struck with anger, but before he could argue (and look how well Filch knew his boy, that he knew argument was what he could expect for such a comment), Filch leaned down and swallowed him whole.

The boy’s thin cry was music to him; that slender body was trembling in short order, the thighs tense and jumpy, the salty sweet cock nestling beautifully in his mouth as if it knew it had a home there. Fingers tunneled gingerly through his hair and Filch smiled around his abundant mouthful. He licked and kissed and sucked and breathed, and in a very short span of time, the boy was bucking against his face, giving wordless groans. Getting close, Filch knew, and drew back.

“We’ll need some lubricant,” Filch said. “You got any?”

The boy’s face was red-tinged and wild. When he dragged his eyes open, they were hazy; confused. “What?”

Filch laughed with delight, reminding himself that he couldn’t just leap on the boy and shove those thighs open to rut right then. Slow, he thought. Easy. Don’t scare him. “Oil? Or gel?”

“I’ve some rosemary oil,” the boy said distantly. “In the bathroom. For tired muscles.”

Filch hurried, not wanting to break the buzz by taking too long. In what seemed like seconds, he was back, licking once more at the lovely cock, taking it to the root, thrilling in the way those hips compulsively thrust against his face.

He sat up, yanking young Snape upward to straddle his lap. The boy wobbled like he was half-asleep before catching himself on Filch’s shoulders. His mouth was half-open, irresistible, really, and Filch took full advantage. He took those lips with force, biting and tasting and driving himself mad. He opened the oil, bathing his fingers, spilling some in the process, and proceeded to caress between the pert cheeks.

The boy tensed, breaking the kiss, his hands pushing away slightly, and Filch stared up at him, wondering if he truly meant to stop, or if he was just wanting some convincing. _Make me forget,_ he remembered. He captured the boy’s wrists behind his back, holding them tight with one hand, while with the other, he continued to press and tease the small opening he’d found. The sound he heard when one finger entered up to the second knuckle was gut-wrenching. Filch found his teeth sinking into the curve where neck met shoulder. He bucked slightly, feeling the weight of the boy against his own cock, and realized that if he wasn’t careful, he’d spend in his pants like someone a third his age.

He added a second finger, clenching down with his other hand to keep his captive still. He stretched the boy’s hole, breathing hard, taking advantage of the position to make good use of those tight little nipples. The boy cried out, his hips jerking, pressing his cock against Filch’s belly, and a second later, smirking, Filch did it again, all of it—fingers of both hands firm and determined, mouth greedily slurping and biting, and the boy abruptly came, flooding Filch’s belly and shirt with warm come.

The boy slumped, but Filch didn’t pause. He added a third finger, careful not to jostle the boy’s hips more than he had to. Young as he was, he’d probably be good for another round soon enough, if given the chance to get over the post-orgasm sensitivity. So he let go of the skinny wrists and instead got to work opening his own trousers and reaching in one-handed to oil himself up. He dipped up some of Snape’s come to help ease the way, enjoying the idea of it immensely. He was still mouthing lazily at the upthrust nipples when he felt the boy’s cock twitch between them.

“You like that, don’t you, pet? Like feeling my fingers in your arse? God, I can see it in your cock. Look at it, getting hard all over again. You’re an eager little thing, aren’t you?”

And the words were helping, Filch saw with pleasure. In the time it took to say five sentences, Snape was half-hard again.

“Yeah, you’re a dirty cat,” Filch continued, juggling the boy slightly to one side to get his trousers and pants down enough that he could let his own cock loose. He shifted quickly, not wanting the boy to see; Filch was very decently sized, and he didn’t want to scare him. “Put your arms around me, lad. There’s a good boy. Lean up. Yeah, like that.” He captured that red, dazed mouth one more time, then broke to say, “I’m going to fuck you now.”

*

Severus couldn’t think. There was a dim sort of haze over everything, and nothing felt real anymore somehow. There was only the heat crashing in his belly, and the hot mouth against his throat and chest and nipples, and the wily, insistent fingers that were slowly but inevitably opening him up. His muscles kept moving without his direction, and every now and then he realized he was making embarrassing noises only to lose track of himself again when the big hands on his body did something new.

The man smelled like wood shavings and lemon.

And the words. The filthy words that made him feel wonderfully small and wicked at the same time. Yes, he was dirty, yes, he liked it all, and there was something beautifully free in that. Something unapologetic. God, he burned. All he could do was rock his cock against the hard belly, sliding slightly in the come he’d given up just minutes ago, and try to breathe.

Dimly he heard, “I’m going to fuck you now. I’m going to fuck this tight little arse. You want that don’t you?”

And he said yes.

“Be a good boy, lad. Ask me nicely.”

“Please,” Severus managed. “Please.”

“Please what?”

The fingers in his arse withdrew, and Severus shifted, trying to follow them. He heard Filch give a desperate chuckle.

“Please fuck me.” The words were difficult to get out, but he was instantly rewarded. The fingers were gone, true, but something larger and more demanding had taken their place.

That was a cock entering him, Severus realized indistinctly. A big cock, too, he suspected, because the stretch and the burn were immeasurably stronger than before. In just seconds it became pain, real pain, splitting him open, and without quite meaning to, he began to struggle.

Hands landed on his hips, and a firm voice said, “Give it a minute, lad, and it’ll ease. You’re going to take every inch. I’m going to spread you wide, and you’re going to beg for more like the filthy cat you are. Yeah, there it is. Swallow me up, lad. Good boy. Like that. Not so bad, is it? Christ, you’re tight.”

Filch’s voice was getting more and more hoarse. Severus could barely hold his head up. Every cell in his body was focused on the pain in his arse, the growing fullness and impossible burning. Part of him wanted to jump up and end the agony. Part of him wanted to just drop down and get it all in at once. But while he dithered, the hands on his hips took the choice away. Gripping tightly enough to leave bruises, Filch controlled Severus’s descent with flawless control.

“It hurts,” Severus managed.

“Did you want it to?” Filch asked. Severus opened his eyes, found himself looking into a searching hazel gaze. He wanted honesty, that much was clear, and so Severus gave it to him.

“Yes,” he whispered.

“More or less than it does?”  
“More.”

Filch gave a tiny, almost imperceptible wince, as if he didn’t like the answer, but then he took Severus at his word, and thrust up at the same time that his hands dragged Severus’s hips down. In a second, he was balls-deep, and Severus had let out a cry that anyone walking by must’ve heard. He fidgeted for a moment, unable to hold still against the burn, but slowly his flesh began to adjust.

“You’re so tight,” Filch said, his face red, breath wheezing.

“Move,” Severus said, not sure he meant it.

“You’re on top, lad,” Filch said wryly, and Severus blinked. Then he moved, and he enjoyed to no end the way Filch’s smile evaporated at the first lift of his hips.

It did hurt, and it would hurt the whole time, but through the burn was a sizzle of pleasure, a sharp shock of heat and curling and impossible electricity as the big cock stroked something that Severus hadn’t even known existed within him.

He heard Filch’s panting words as if from a great distance. “Oh, yeah, we found it, didn’t we? Look at you, coming apart in my arms. Christ, you look good like this. Spread out on me, bouncing on my cock, moving like a whore. Take it all, lad. You can go faster. Harder. Yessss, you like to fuck, don’t you? I knew it.”

Yes, Severus thought. If this was fucking, he liked it. The deep pressure in his arse was striking sparks in his brain with every rocking thrust, and now those clever hands were stroking around the place where he was being entered, then spreading his cheeks, then clutching him close to adjust speed or angle, and whenever those delightfully dirty words weren’t sounding, that mouth was biting and licking and teasing skin and nipples and throat, and all the while there was the heat and the hard thighs beneath him, and then one of those big hands was coming between them to find his erection, to give it a few pulls, to tug and squeeze, and there was no thought, no self, just his body, his flesh, and that rough voice speaking roughly to his rib cage, now saying truly shocking things like, “You’re beautiful like this, God, you’re sweet, I could fuck you for hours, God, just let me keep you…”

Severus came so hard he saw lights flash behind his closed eyelids. The orgasm seemed to last an age, and when he came down it was to realize that he was spread as wide as he could be in this position, with Filch thrusting up into him with blind eyes and a half-open, wildly groaning mouth. The hands on his hips clamped down, and with a series of violent, hard pushes, Filch came too.

For a moment, their breaths were loud and raspy and as thoroughly linked as their bodies were. Severus’s limbs trembled with an overwhelming mixture of exhaustion, pleasure and pain, and he didn’t even open his eyes when Filch eased him down onto his back. He felt the older man get up, and he’d nearly drifted off when Filch came back with a warm cloth. Having someone clean spunk from his arsehole and thighs was more intimate than the actual fucking. Interesting, Severus thought around a yawn. You’d think it would be the other way around.

He stayed there, slumped and half-asleep, and listened to water running. Then he heard fabric rustling, and then he was warmer. A gentle hand came down in his hair, stroking and combing at the strands. Lips found his, and he kissed back helplessly, feeling inside-out, upside-down and backwards all at once. Nothing was as it should be. He wasn’t as he had been.

“Sleep, lad. I’ll come back for you later.”

Before he drifted off, two crucial thoughts occurred to him.

First, Filch was coming back. Severus wasn’t sure what was more frightening—that there was someone in the world who claimed to want to return to his side, or that he believed it when it was said.

Second, and more importantly, he seemed to have a body again. Maybe he would become intangible again later—in fact, he suspected he would be a wraith again as soon as he woke up—but he’d gotten more than a few moments of quiet out of this little encounter. When Filch came back (and he would), maybe he wouldn’t mind putting Severus back together again if he needed it. Maybe this time, when Severus said _make me pay_ , what he’d really mean was _make me yours_. And maybe Filch would hear him.

*

The boy lay sleeping, his eyes working in dreams beneath thin, pale eyelids. He must’ve been out since Filch had left this morning, and since that had been hours and hours ago, he would no doubt be waking up soon. Well-rested for the first time in…well, maybe years.

Filch bent down, brushed tender fingers through night-dark hair, and smiled. This was all the boy needed. He was like a weathered house, left empty and waiting, the fire in the hearth so close to going out. He only needed someone to keep those fires burning, to keep him here, in the world, no matter what spirits and monsters might try to pull him away. He needed a caretaker.

And fortunately, as he’d known all along, Filch was just the man for the job.

 

 

 


End file.
